Vacations Aren't An Excuse For Lack Of Observation
by montypythongirl123
Summary: This takes place after S2E1, when Sherlock has taken The Woman's camera phone and John is returning files to Mycroft. Mycroft and John have a chat, and John takes a much-needed vacation from a certain detective, during which time Sherlock realizes how much he actually misses John and cares about him. Happy ending; I needed to write this to assuage my own Sherlock-induced torment.


John walked tall and erect, exiting Sherlock's office. He held the files in one hand, and his steady gait trod down the stairs. He kept a blank face while he met with Mycroft, while he shook his hand, and while he turned around to return to the flat and was stopped.

"John."

John paused, and turned.

"Yes, Mycroft?"

Mycroft gazed at him with an unfathomable expression, but from what John could make out, there was something in his eyes that looked a bit like concern, and an unquestionable bit of pity.

"Don't try."

John blinked, and his brow furrowed in confusion.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked politely, cocking his head and clearing his throat.

Mycroft let a sad smile grace his cold features. "Don't try." He looked at John for a moment longer, and then with a turn of his head, he retreated out the door of the café.

John stood, and then, as if snapping out of a trance, walked briskly after Mycroft. "Mycroft. Mycroft! Mycroft, wait!"

Mycroft paused for a second, back still turned to John, listening.

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean."

Mycroft chuckled grimly, and resumed his pace. "I'm afraid you'll find, Dr. John Watson, that my brother cannot feel as you do."

John exhaled sharply. "And what exactly do you presume I feel, Mycroft?" An indignant tone. A raising of eyebrows. Arms were very nearly crossed in defiance, only to compromise with clenched fists at suddenly tense sides.

This time, Mycroft did turn around. "You are a smart man, John. You are also painfully in love. Never a good combination."

"I am _not_ in love with Sherlock Holmes!"

A raised eyebrow. "Good."

And then the man really was gone, walking unhurriedly but with slightly more purpose, disappearing from the doors and out into the streets of London. John knew any attempt to press Mycroft further would be futile, and instead leaned against the wall of the café with a resigned sigh.

John ascended the stairs as violin music fell down the stairs and surrounded his ears. For all his brilliance at deduction, Sherlock really was a good violinist. John ran a hand through his hair and opened the door.

"I'm home, Sherlock," he called out, not expecting to hear an answering call. He was correct; the violin music continued uninterrupted.

"I'm going out."

The violin kept playing.

"I'll be gone for a while. I'll be back soon. We need some more milk, and there's ants all through the sugar."

Now that John listened a bit more closely, it sounded quite a bit like a waltz.

"Well. Bye then." He cleared his throat, waiting for an answer, and gave up after a few moments.

He hadn't expected one.

The soft click of the door left the room one person shorter, and to Sherlock, John assumed, the lines of music would easily take his place.

_-John, you said we needed milk, but you aren't back yet. SH_

_-John, those aren't ants, those are raisins. I don't even know how raisins got in the sugar. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson has been _

John snorted at that. There was an eyeball being exposed to ultraviolet light in the oven and Mrs. Hudson knew it; she wouldn't go near the stove.

_-If you wish, come to 221B Baker St. SH_

_-And if I don't? JW_

_-We all have our crosses to bear. SH _

John tossed his phone onto the plush chair of the hotel room, and buried himself underneath the sheets. He wasn't even sure what he was doing here, not really, but at the time, a break from a certain curly haired, sea-blue-green eyed genius detective sounded like a good idea. The phone buzzed, and John crossed to the chair to read the message.

-_John, it has been ten minutes, and I don't like to be kept waiting. SH_

_-John, where are you. SH_

_-I told you, on vacation. JW_

_-Meet me at the corner in twenty minutes. SH_

_-On vacation, Sherlock. JW_

And now, John stuffed the phone underneath one of the four pillows adorning his hotel bed, turning it off.

When he woke up from his nap at eleven o'clock at night, he would turn his phone on to see new messages:

_-John, this is inconvenient and I do not appreciate it. I will leave on my own. SH_

_-John, I am annoyed. SH_

And then much later,

_-John, I got the milk. SH_

The key turned in the lock, and John was once again greeted with the sound of violin music as he entered the flat.

"I'm home, Sherlock."

The violin stopped. John raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Anything interesting happen?"

He walked to the kitchen, and started heating a bit of hot water for a cup of tea.

"I'm making tea, would you like any?"

And now Sherlock's voice came from his bedroom. His tone was clipped, and edged with something John had never heard before in his voice.

"Black, two sugars, please."

John retrieved a teapot and two teacups from the cupboard, and prepared the tea. He carried a cup with both hands into Sherlock's room, knowing the other man usually wished to be alone when drinking tea, unless forced to be in the presence of company.

He knocked on the door.

"Come in."

John entered.

"Leave it by the windowsill. Come here."

John raised an eyebrow in interest, but crossed to stand next to Sherlock.

"Yes?"

Sherlock turned to him, and their faces were very, very close. "What do you see?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What. Do you see?" Sherlock waved a demonstrative hand in front of his face.

"I'm afraid I have no earthly idea what you are talking about, as usual, so if you could ramble as if I understood, as usual, that would probably be the best course of action," John remarked, with a roll of his eyes.

Sherlock looked at him, slightly bewildered. "But I always explain everything to you."

"Yes, and that would be very helpful right now. What are you going on about?"

Sherlock huffed. "My face. While I have never been the smoothest of creatures, my face has wrinkled more. My circadian rhythm has not been interrupted, my water intake has been consistent, and my mind is in its proper, highly-functioning setting. Now, my dear doctor, would you be so kind as to tell me why my face has wrinkled, if I have kept with my normal behavioral ongoings and have changed next to nothing concerning my domestic routine?"

John furrowed his brow. "Are you anxious?"

"No."

"Have you been?"

Sherlock stopped briefly to consider. "No, I don't think so, no."

"Is there anyone you have been particularly concerned about, as of late?"

"No."

John ignored the sting his heart gave his chest. "Right. Well, I'm stumped. Then again, I have not been around to notice any irregularities that you might have missed, god forbi-"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, "firstly, there are very few things that I miss, none of which ever reveal themselves to you. Secondly, whose fault is it that you have not been here?"

John started. "I was on _vacation_, Sherlock, for a week."

"Thank you, John, but I was hoping you would go slightly further into detail."

"So, what, are you angry that I stepped out for a bit?"

"What on earth gave you that preposterous idea?"

John shut his mouth. "Nothing. Just- nothing. I'm off to my room. Sod it." He made to leave, but a hand on his stopped him in his tracks.

"No. I- no. Don't leave. I'm glad. That you're back." Sherlock spoke in stilted, fragmented sentences containing unfamiliar words laced with alien affection.

John cleared his throat. "Right. Well, I missed you too."

"John."

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock pulled him very close, staring intently into his eyes. "Don't do that again."

John's eyes widened. "What, go on vacation?"

"Leave me."

John's indignation vanished, and his gaze softened without his permission. "Not going to happen, Sherlock. I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

"It's not so bad."

"Not so bad?"

"Not bad." Sherlock exhaled. "Even…good."

"Good."

"…Good."

And goddamnit, Sherlock's mouth was far too close to his and his eyes looked far to cerulean and his neck was too long, his stare too intent, his lips too close, too close, too close-

John shut his eyes and honestly couldn't remember the next bit, except that his lips were brushing over Sherlock's of their own accord and his fingers were winding into curls at the nape of his neck. Sherlock stilled, breath stopping, and John honestly nearly panicked until he felt a hand tentatively resting at his jawline and an answering press of lips. John inhaled sharply, then softly, tilting his head so he could kiss Sherlock firmly, _I missed you, I love you, I thought you wouldn't ever want me, I can't believe I'm doing this right now, I can't believe you're doing this right back. _

But all he said, when they broke apart, was:

"Good?"

And then a deep chuckle, an answer: "Good."


End file.
